Military Daring & A New Wife

As my many millions of loyal fans will know, I have spent the whole of September on a colonial tour of Africa. After becoming rather bored in August I decided to spend September touring Africa engaging in the many absorbing activities the ‘Dark Continent’ has to offer, such as shooting lions and elephants, and mounting the delicious women this part of the world has to offer. I embarked on this Grand African Tour accompanied by my best chum and fellow Old Etonian, Lord Rathborne. Rathborne and I have visited many parts of the world together. Our most infamous trip was in 1975, when we visited Italy and caused a diplomatic incident when our plan to kidnap the Pope and take him to a brothel backfired spectacularly (in a rather publicly drunken fashion). But that is a story for another time. I also decided to take my Director of Security Jack Coleridge and my Head Bodyguard Victor with me, for protection and potential use as human shields in the event of a terrorist attack. I had also decided it was time to show Victor that going away for two weeks to Tenerife to drink cheap lager and fight other English peasants and Spanish taxi drivers does not constitute “travelling the world” as he often claims.

When we arrived at our first destination in Uganda, I was delighted to be in such an exotic place, away from the nightmare Britain has become. Modern Britain is a cesspit, infested with foreigners and governed by the agenda of the crude and vile proletariat, with their love of soccer, disgusting fast food and brutal street brawling. Even the Prime Minister, with his impeccable breeding and admirable exploits in the Bullingdon Club at Oxford has to govern in a left wing fashion and pretend he supports soccer, such is the moral degradation of our glorious country. A man of empire such as myself feels much more at home in Africa, where the colonial spirit of imperial Britain still exists.

During my first few weeks, I engaged in all the activities the African colonies have to offer. I went hunting, shooting the largest and fastest animals known to man. I gambled, I drank profusely, and of course I mounted the domestic colony girls with such ferocity I was admitted to hospital with exhaustion. Lord Rathborne also engaged in these activities, and mysteriously went missing for a week. Jack Coleridge eventually tracked him down to a remote Ugandan village, where he was found in a house with several hermaphrodites. He claimed he didn’t know they were freaks of nature, and he was so drunk I was quite willing to believe him. After I left hospital and returned to the hunting estate I was renting, I was greeted by an old chum of mine from Oxford. He had read a newspaper report in Kenya, where he was now running a nature reserve, about a “British Knight and a Lord” who were causing mayhem and “acting like white devils” in Uganda and guessed it was myself and Rathborne. Charles Hever was a very good chum of mine at Oxford. We got on well and had a mutual love of gambling and mounting. At Oxford he spoke optimistically of a career in politics, with his ambition to re-establish the military might of the British Empire, so disgracefully neglected by the Labour lot. But shortly before graduation he suddenly became a “conservationist”, and went off to Africa to help preserve endangered animals (which I considered to be the behaviour of an anal lunatic). Charles invited us to stay with him at his reserve near Nairobi, and after hearing he had an unmarried nineteen year old daughter, I simply could not decline the invitation.

Shortly after we arrived at the nature reserve, we were introduced to the Hever family. Charles’ wife was not much to look at, but his daughter was absolutely captivating. With her long brown hair, slim toned body, and impressive bust I decided there and then I would enjoy a passionate affair with her. I don’t remember her name, but I was certain that I fell in love with her from the first moment I gazed upon her beautiful hazel eyes (and impressive bust). We were shown to our quarters and some servants took our belongings and unpacked them. We rested for a while, and then attended lunch in the main house. The whole thing was rather boring and I wondered whether there was come cricket or rugby I could be watching on a television. Before long I noticed the servants were in quite a commotion. One of the servants whispered in Charles’ ear, and he looked shocked. He stood up and announced that the BBC were reporting a terrorist attack was under way in the Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi. I knew straight away that I would have to take command of the operation to defeat the terrorists, and that the native Kenyan army would be useless and incompetent. As a senior representative of the British Empire, it was my duty to act to defeat an attack taking place in our colony. I explained the situation to Jack Coleridge, and as former SAS men we knew that time was of the essence, so we mobilised immediately with weapons and vehicles provided by the gamekeeper of the reserve. We made our way to the scene, ready for the mission at hand, but with me feeling rather disappointed that I would miss out on mounting Charles’ daughter.

When we arrived at the scene the Kenyans were a shambles. The army were standing around doing less work than a bunch of plebs on a Sheffield council estate. I approached the nearest unit commander and explained I was Sir Peter Maxwell, Knight of the British Empire and former SAS General. He looked rather confused by the events at hand, but when Jack and I explained how we had almost single handedly won the Gulf War in 1991, he was keen for me to take a charge of the operation. He offered the use of his troops but quite frankly I knew they would be useless. I knew that I would have to personally take on the terrorists (ably assisted by Jack Coleridge). Jack and I entered the mall armed with AK47s, and all the memories of Iraq came flooding back. The daring ambushes, the burning oil fields, and Jack Coleridge decapitating Saddam’s nuclear scientists after they surrendered. We began shooting and brought down five or six terrorists. After securing one section of the mall, I encountered an injured terrorist writhing in agony on the floor. To my amazement, he began begging me for help in an East London accent. He was clearly one of these silly little plebs who think going on a Jihad is like a trip to Butlins. I had no time for talking and left him to think about what he had done. The terrorists had retreated to the back of the mall and after rescuing some hostages, we made a tactical retreat back outside. Full of adrenalin from our heroic actions, I spotted an African TV reporter who was quite simply the most beautiful colony girl I have ever seen. I dusted myself off and introduced myself. She was amazed at my exploits, and put me live on air to her TV audience back in her homeland of Tanzania. I talked for forty five minutes about my bravery, and the reporter was lapping it up with glee. After the interview had concluded I asked her name. “Grace Kimbasa, I am the top TV reporter in Tanzania”, she boasted. “How would you like to be my next wife”, I confidently enquired. “I would be honoured to be married to such a handsome and heroic man such as yourself”, came her entirely expected reply. We checked in to a local hotel and had a passionate mounting session which lasted for approximately nine hours. The next day we both returned to Charles’ reserve where I announced my intention to marry Grace. Charles was shocked, but pleased for me. I was so in love with Grace I didn’t even attempt to seduce Charles’ daughter that evening.

I have left Grace in Kenya for the moment, while I arrange the wedding here in Gloucestershire. There is also the minor detail of divorcing my current wife, but I am confident she will accept a quick and generous settlement since she was a wife I ordered on the Internet only four years ago. I am feeling very optimistic about the future, and can’t wait to bring Grace over and make her my new wife. Meanwhile, I haven’t abandoned my pursuit of the delightful Alexandra Curry, and will work on seducing her in the next few weeks.

For England and Saint George!

SIR PETER MAXWELL

Sir Peter Goes To Eastleigh

As you may know because of the criminal behaviour of Christopher Huhne, there has been a by-election in a place called Eastleigh, which until Christopher Huhne resigned as the MP I had never heard of. But, I was confident that the plebs of this place would welcome a new Tory MP so I decided I would go and campaign there. Although the Foreign Secretary William Hague telephoned me and begged me not to campaign, the temptation to go and relive some of my electioneering glory was too powerful to resist. The days campaigning with Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s were quite frankly some of the greatest days of my life, as I bathed in the great charisma and golden glow of our greatest Prime Minister (and second greatest lady in the country after Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II).

The morning of the February 27 was an early start for me, as I was keen to arrive and start campaigning immediately, so we set off at around 9.15am. I decided to take Victor with me as firstly I very rarely drive myself anywhere unless I am driving for pleasure on Sundays, and secondly mixing with peasants can be a dangerous business so I needed Victor with me for bodily protection. We arrived in Eastleigh about two hours later. We drove around for a little while to see what kind of place it was. I quickly concluded it was some kind of suburban nightmare. Vile semi-detached houses dotted the place, along with horrid family saloons and hatchbacks. Suddenly the prospect of mixing with the kind of peasants who would live in an area like this filled me with horror, but I had to do it for the good of the party.

Eventually we decided to park up at an Esso petrol station on Twyford Road. This would be the perfect spot to inflate my 12 foot Margaret Thatcher. I had it made for the 1987 general election. It toured the country and visited around one hundred constituencies. I have a picture of the great lady herself posing with me next to the inflatable Maggie, which I had framed and now keep on my desk. Some commentators even claimed it may have won the election for Baroness Thatcher, which I do not doubt to be true. I was sure that the sight of a 12 foot Baroness Thatcher would remind the peasants of Eastleigh that it’s always better where the Tories are, even if there is mass unemployment and the weather isn’t very nice. It took around thirty minutes for the great lady to inflate, but when she was fully blown up she looked just as magnificent as she ever did. With the great lady inflated, it was time for the real campaigning to begin. I set off to do what I do best... give instructions to peasants.

We located a nearby housing estate and parked the Bentley up. There weren’t any parking spaces big enough to fit the Bentley in so I instructed Victor to park in an empty driveway. I was sure the owner wouldn’t mind when they discovered it was my car, besides it would probably convince the neighbours they had won the lottery, which would be a temporary buzz for the owner. It was time to do some good old fashioned door knocking. I picked a house and embarked up the driveway. I was clutching some leaflets I had my son Edward make on his Apple machine. The leaflet showed a large picture of me holding my favourite rifle, and simply said “SIR PETER COMMANDS YOU TO VOTE CONSERVATIVE”. This was an unorthodox leaflet, but the Conservative candidate Maria Hutchings was a rather ugly woman, and I doubted any voters would rather see her face than mine. I knocked on the door and a rather portly fellow answered, although I missed him at first because he was in a wheelchair. I quipped to Victor “Here we go, a Labour layabout on benefits”. The chap looked rather perplexed. He asked what I wanted and I told him I was here to command him to vote Conservative as it was his moral duty. “And why should I vote for that lot?” he rather rudely queried. “Because I have driven for two hours to get here and it’s the least you could do” I replied. “I always vote Lib Dem, I like the council here”, he bizarrely claimed. “Forget about those losers and vote Conservative, we’ve got a work programme for you disabled lot and it’s always better to be in work than in a wheelchair claiming benefits”... I informed him. By this point he looked to be quite furious with me but I wasn’t giving up. He tried to slam the door but Victor grabbed it before it could shut. I thrust a leaflet in his face and gave him my final instruction. “Listen here dear boy, take this leaflet, and make sure you roll yourself down to the polling station before ten o’ clock to vote Conservative”. He told me to ‘go fuck myself’ and then rather rudely slammed the door. Although he was clearly angry with me, I was sure that by the end of the day he would feel guilty about sitting about in a wheelchair and claiming benefits, and would do his patriotic duty.

By this point I had had just about enough of door knocking and decided it was time to eat some lunch. We got back into the car and set off to find a food source. Eventually we spotted a cafe which seemed to be selling food, so I sent in Victor to buy some sandwiches and tea. He came back with some delicious looking cucumber sandwiches and some tea in polystyrene cups. We parked up in the middle of the town to consume these items. As we were taking in our lunch I spotted a fellow in orange trousers standing at a bus stop, smoking a cigarette and chatting to a fat woman. After a while I recognised this fellow to be the rebel pleb Nigel Farage. “Look at that Victor... it’s that fellow” I shouted at Victor. “Who’s that?” he asked. “A very rebellious peasant” I informed him.  After a few moments it dawned on me that I could end this UKIP nonsense once and for all. I instructed Victor to engage the car in ‘drive’ and run Farage over. We could claim it was an accident, claim that Victor’s foot slipped onto the gas pedal and wiped out the whole sorry UKIP bandwagon in one go. Victor was dead against the idea as he had recently received a suspended prison sentence for viciously attacking a fellow peasant outside a public house. Victor had gone back to visit his home city of Leicester, he was drinking outside a public house whilst wearing his Leicester City Football Team jersey. A fan from the rival soccer team The Nottingham Forests had insulted him, and Victor had beaten him up and stabbed him with a broken beer bottle in the neck. Running down Nigel Farage would probably see him sent to prison. My plan thwarted, we retreated back to the Esso petrol station to check on the inflatable Margaret Thatcher.

As we pulled into the petrol station I was horrified to see that the 12ft Baroness Thatcher had been attacked. Some pleb had drawn a rather large penis on the face, pointing into her mouth. As if this wasn’t bad enough, they had coloured it in to make it black. I know for a fact that she has never fellated any man, not even her husband Dennis, let alone a black fellow. This was the final straw. I could not let this stand. I shouted at the nearest pleb, a rather camp fellow who was mincing his way across the forecourt. “You there... stop right away” I barked at him. He turned around to see what the commotion was and I berated him. “Who did this to Baroness Thatcher?” I asked him. “What are you going on about you nutter?” he brusquely replied. “One of your lot wasn’t it? You know she wasn’t keen on you lot!” I informed him. He suddenly became rather defensive. “And what do you mean by ‘your lot’?” he bellowed. “Poofters! Bloody poofters! First you get gay marriage and now you’re vandalising the place!” I forcefully explained. Quick as a flash he slapped me across the face. I was sent into a furious rage, but Victor had already grabbed him and sent him flying head first into one of the bins they put next to the petrol pumps. “Let’s fucking do one, the Old Bill will he here in a minute...” said a panicked Victor. He was right; the police have nothing better to do these days than arrest patriotic citizens. We hopped into the Bentley and sped off back to Gloucestershire and the serene sanity of my estate. We had to leave inflatable Maggie there, but she is useless to me now anyway with a large penis on her face. Enjoy your new Lib Dem MP, Eastleigh, you have disgraced yourselves in the eyes of the world and the great Sir Peter Maxwell!

 

Forceful regards,

SIR PETER MAXWELL KBE